To catch up: a passim

At the house where I live there is a Momma and a Poppafamilias, a white dog, a Spinet, bare feet and gardens, and six other variations of me.

At the house where I stay there lives a good Doctor, his wife and his pipe, two princess puppies, one of the prettiest pianos in the world, and a quiet blue pool outside.

I don't get to be where I live very much. The house where I stay is not home. And I am getting used to this, which is one of the six or seven feelings one year ago I never thought I would feel.

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Last night we went to the St. Louis Symphony, some of us because it counted as credit and some because we hadn't been since we were very little which was when we were allowed to be very little and to care more than the music, that we got to sit next to a lady we loved. Last night I heard Yefim Bronfman play the Rachmaninoff 3rd piano concerto and it was more beautiful than anything in the world and by now I know better than to think it was silly of me but I sat there in the dimness of the hall with my face bathed in tears because it was everything I wanted. It was everything I wanted.
When it was very late and I got back to the house where I stay, I was filled up with music and I couldn't fall asleep for hours because the soul of that night had made mine so gentle and awake, like candles.

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In other news:
Fall left for a while and is coming back next week. 60s. I love my scarves.

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I haven't written because so many things are coming up on me. October is going to be half gone before I see it. Recital this, concert that, Competition. I have a teacher now. I have practiced so much my hands ache to practice some more. I've been discouraged and afraid and hopeful and the closest to confident yet, in that order. I have a teacher now. I felt very stupid at first and quiet and then very small and trusting at the piano next to hers, all of which I need to feel to grow.

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Well, I have written actually. Stuff. Like PAPERS. I hate papers. I'm supposed to be writing a paper right now. I'm not good at writing papers. I can't write papers on a schedule because I get hung up. I get hung up on one word, every time, because usually it seems to me that the choice between that word and another word make all the difference.

Besides, I always think of things I'm supposed to say here in the morning when I'm looking at my face in the mirror. By the time I get to school and I do have something to write, I have to do it in the library and I try to avoid actually having do something serious in the library because I can never concentrate properly between all The Jamaicans that think the library is an appropriate place to ask me out. The Jamaicans are long story, one of the ones that it would take longer than a while to actually catch up on. What's happening? 500 things, I feel the same and way, way different. Presently I am needing to find a balance to my schedule. Let me illustrate

:

College.

1) Good grades
2) Social life
3) Sleep

Someone very wise told me I have to pick two.

But, lest we forget, coffee.

TBC

Hello

Right now I am sitting barefoot on a tall chair in the school library. Before I was here I was sitting barefoot on the school swing under the school trees and before that I was walking barefoot on a few crunchy school leaves along a row of school trees and for the first time was feeling like I do at home. Because this is my homeweather* (see Important Neologistical Footnote). Almost always when September comes I like to land and breathe, and almost always also observe curiously a poignant gentle sadness and joy/longing that seems to be reserved in my head for this period of time between today and the cold. It's fall, now. The whole meaning of the air is autumn. You have to have felt what I feel to know what I mean, but it is the first day when you can look out a window and tell it's here. Something in the light; brighter, crisper? You have to have seen what I see to know what I'm saying, that the light of a season is distinct to itself, its very own colour and idea. Autumn light is clear, and thin and sharp like the first bite of an apple.

I thought I should also say that maybe sometime soon I'll write things. A million shapes have changed, inside and around me but a million more haven't. The weather still starts turning after summer and I still go all crazy happy and want to tell someone about it. People ask me what I want to do and I still say music, because I still think that explains everything.


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* Important Neologistical Footnote:

Homeweather is kind of like homeboy/girl/fry/slice, only slightly more atmospherical